We are going to remember 2016. We are going to remember it for what we lost. We are going to remember it for all that happened, and for all that we had hoped would happen, but did not. There will be times when the memories will come back to us in waves of pain and anger and utter dismay. We will not be able to forget.
For a variety of reasons over the years, I've held on to a great many items. Some for practical purposes, some because they function as a surrogate for my memory and, yes, even some for sentimental reasons. It happens.
There is nothing sadder than an old love letter, except perhaps an old love letter that was never meant to be a love letter.
It’s not okay to be in love. It’s, in fact, a very dangerous thing. I’d recommend you avoid it, but it’s not much of a choice, is it? You know how the girls are...
I wish more movies and books in the popular canon indulged in unreliable perspectives. While common wisdom claims this is the generation of irony, earnest narrators and protagonists remain quite in vogue. There is nothing wrong with sincerity, and in fact I frequently prefer it to irony which in the hands of lesser artists is nothing more than a feeble cover for having nothing to say. But fiction (and non-fiction, for that matter) benefits from a willingness to suggest, “Here’s one perspective, but it’s just one of many, and maybe it’s not even a very good one.”
How can you be a writer and know so few words? How can you be a lover and know so few moves?